


A Lesson in Adapting

by distortedrain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Communication, Fluff, Gen, Getting Together, Hunter Retirement, M/M, Post-Canon, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-12-01 08:53:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11482941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distortedrain/pseuds/distortedrain
Summary: After defeating the latest big bad, the Winchesters settle into the Bunker, dial down the hunting, and dial up the family time.





	A Lesson in Adapting

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [SPN Canon Big Bang](https://spncanonbigbang.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Special thank you to my artist, emotionallyunstabl [[AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emotionallyunstabl/profile) / [Tumblr](https://emotionallyunstabl.tumblr.com/)]

 

The day had been slow thus far. Every lead that Sam and Dean had found had turned out to be a dead end, and after Dean had drawn the short straw and was forced to visit a guy who lived in his mother’s basement and had popcorn stuck in his belly button (while Sam had gotten to visit a bar with _young, hot, busty, big-assed bartenders_ and a sorta hot guy), well, Dean was really quite ready to call it a day. Except.

A mutual drawing of the short straw left Sam and Dean forced to visit the head of the PTA. (Un)fortunately, good ole’ Sammy had dug up some useful information about her and, well, better safe than sorry; you never knew when the next casualty was going to occur, nor if the perpetrator was going to skip town.

The sun was setting by the time they pulled up in front of her bungalow and knocked on the door. She yanked it open and swept her eyes over their suits. Her hair was silvery and rolled into curlers. A cotton nightgown fell to her ankles. Her feet were clad in fuzzy blue slippers.

“Can I help you?” she croaked.

Dean held back a snicker. “Mrs Whittaker?” Dean started. “We’re here with the FBI, I’m Special Agent Townshend, this is Special Agent Waters. We’d like to ask you a few questions if that’s alright.”

Mrs Whittaker’s eyes darted around the sky. She seemed skittish, like something bad was going to happen any moment now. “It’s getting late,” she said. “Come back tomorrow.” She went to swing the door back shut, but Sam managed to wedge his foot in the doorframe.

“Ma’am,” he said kindly. “It’s urgent. So we’d really appreciate it if you could help us. It won’t take long.”

Mrs Whittaker frowned. The lines around her mouth, carved from some seventy or eighty years of laughing and grimacing. deepened. She suddenly looked very old. She opened the door again and silently turned around, back into her house.

* * *

The Impala swerved wildly, quite nearly crashing into the trees that lined the rocky dirt path Dean was driving down. The road ahead was misty and unclear. The sky, though bright with moonlight, was nearly opaque for all Dean could see. As another tree appeared unexpectedly in Dean’s path, he pulled hard on the wheel.

On either side of the road were God-knows how many miles of forest. Ahead of Dean were God-knows how many more miles of dirt path. And behind Dean were thirty-one miles of dirt path and a snake-dragon-pretty-woman hybrid flying just above the ground that Dean hadn't been able to shake for the past thirty-one minutes. The thing seemed to have an infinite reservoir of stamina and desire-to-keep-chasing-Dean-and-eat-him. Every time Dean looked back, he felt a little ill. A cramp was growing in his stomach and it felt like something was forcing its way up his throat. But Dean suspected it was merely nerves, even though an experienced hunter like himself rarely got nervous.

Dean had ventured into a region too remote for a cell signal to reach him which meant, unfortunately, that he was out of help’s range. Sam, who had opted to stay back in their motel room and research (because apparently, the talk with Mrs Whittaker had sparked some ideas as to the whereabouts and whatabouts of the creature) while Dean had gone out to fetch a burger, was still unaware of the rather messy situation that Dean had entangled himself in. And whether Sam found any useful information or not, there was no way of reaching Dean and metaphorically unravelling the cords.

A quick peek in the rearview told Dean that the thing was still hot on his heels—wheels.

Dean didn’t know how much longer he could outrun the thing. The creature had unyielding stamina, yes, but the Impala’s tank was running dangerously close to empty. And Dean didn’t know how many miles remained ahead of him before he hit civilisation.

Five minutes, then ten, then fifteen, and all the while, the gas metre drew nearer and nearer to that oh-so-menacing _E_. It seemed to be mocking Dean.

And suddenly, a light! Oh, a light! Could it be a town? A city? It certainly meant the end of these miserable woods and this miserable, not to mention treacherous, foggy path.

And then it hit Dean, so hard that he nearly stomped on the breaks. He couldn’t very well lead the creature that was tailing him straight into the town. If it decided that Dean was no longer worth chasing and opted for another more _accessible_ meal, then Dean would have quite the time trying to stop it. But on the other hand, his car wouldn’t have enough gas to make the return trip, even running on fumes, and he would need the cell service if he were to make contact with Sam to figure out how the _fuck_ he was supposed to get rid of this thing.

Dean’s burger had long since tipped onto the floor of the car.

That’s how he found the thing, too. You’d think that after all the years of the same old thing happening to him over and over and over, Dean would stop putting so much trust in hot bartenders. Or waitresses, in this case.

Oh, how the story went the same every time. A grimy little retro-themed _Open 24/7_ diner, harlequin flooring, pink walls, and waitresses with plush red lips and slim waists and shorts that only half-covered their asses. He sits down at the bar in the front, orders a big, triple-patty, extra onion burger, chats up the waitress, and, well, the rest is history.

He really needed to learn to think about safety before sex. But who would have thought that a sleepy old forest town on Connecticut’s coast would be harbouring a beautiful waitress who could turn into a snake-dragon (but keep her human head)?

It was a split second decision: even if Dean managed to feint around the creature and speed back the way he came, his car would simply shut down halfway back through the woods. And Dean had a sneaking suspicion that the creature would be especially in its element in the woods. Dean would never be able to hide, let alone outrun it. He’d be a goner the second he set foot outside of his car. The only option left was to enter the town ahead.

So onward Dean drove.

The plan was to keep to the outskirts of the town; close enough to it that Dean had cell phone reception, but far enough from it that the monster would have no reason the diverge from its current path. Which was to eat Dean.

Whipping his phone out, Dean kept a close watch on the top lefthand corner of the screen. The Impala emerged from the forest. A large lamp loomed just at the border of the trees. That must have been the light that Dean had seen just a few moments ago.

Without gas in his car, Dean would have a small timeframe to contact Sam and figure out how to kill this thing. If the monster’s weakness happened to be something that wouldn’t be readily available. . .well, Dean decided it was better to cross that bridge when he came to it.

Aha! Cell phone reception. One bar, but it would do. Dean dialled Sam’s number and pressed the phone to his ear, listening impatiently as one ring, two rings, three went by, and no answer. And then finally—

“Dean?”

“Sammy!” Dean cried into the phone.

“Where the hell are you man? You’ve been gone for—”

Dean didn’t have time for a lecture. “I found the thing,” he interrupted. “I don’t know what it is. First, it was this hot chick in a diner and then it turned into some dragon or some shit and chased me through the forest to the next town over.”

“Why didn’t you call earlier?” Sam asked.

“No service. I need to know how to kill it.”

Sam was silent for a long moment. Dean tapped the steering wheel with his fingers. The longer Sam took, the more screwed Dean was.

“What does it look like?” Sam said eventually.

“I just told you!” Dean shouted. Then, more calmly, “She’s still kinda the hot chick. She kept her head. But she’s got this—uh—dragon sorta body. She’s not even running behind me, she’s flying—hovering, more like.”

“Huh. I’ll look into it, then.”

“Stay on the line.”

“I was going to,” Sam told him.

Dean could hear typing. It made him want to bounce his leg. Why couldn’t Sam go any faster? With every tap of a key, Dean’s anxiety heightened. What if Sam couldn’t find anything in time?

After several minutes that all felt like separate lifetimes, Sam finally piped up. “You think you can set her on fire?”

“Fire? She’s a fucking _dragon_ , Sam,” Dean reminded. “ Fire’ll probably up her XP or something.”

“ _Holy_ fire, Dean.” Sam said it like it was obvious. Dean grumbled under his breath. When someone says _fire_ , nobody just assumes that they meant _holy_ fire, so it really wasn’t reasonable for Sam to act so pomp—

“Dean? Do you have holy oil or not.”

“Yeah,” Dean grunted.

Now he just had to figure out how to do this. He eased down on the accelerator, pushing the Impala forth with an extra burst of speed. He could see the creature falling behind in his mirror. He stopped the car and got out, popping the trunk. He had a small window of time before the thing caught up and tore his throat out.

His jar of holy oil had just barely enough left to do the job. Unless his plan didn’t work out.

The plan: obtain holy oil—check. Throw holy oil on the monster—in progress. Make a flamethrower out of your lighter and your spray can of AXE—attempt only if step two is successful. It was a shame, really. The ladies always seemed to like that particular edition of AXE. Sam said it smelled like Dean had walked into Bath & Body Works, bathed in every one of their scents, and then left. Maybe that was why the ladies like it; didn’t they, after all, do the same thing?

If Dean somehow splashed the holy oil at the monster but not _on_ the monster. . .what was he supposed to do then? He had no backup jar, no gas, no heavenly servants to go and fetch him another jar from Jerusalem or, better yet, smite the damn thing for him. He was all on his own.

Dean unscrewed the lid and poised himself, sloshing the oil around in the jar. The thing drew nearer, its lips parting to reveal sharp fangs. Its tail, pointed at its tip, swung. Its wings beat strongly, so loud that Dean could hear them swooshing through the air. The uncomfortable feeling in his body was growing, and he felt just on the verge of throwing up. A sweat was breaking out on his forehead, and a bead of it rolled down his temple.

Twenty feet, ten, five—and Dean cast the contents of the jar forwards. They landed soundly with a splash on the creature’s mottled scales and face. The thing flinched back for a moment. But, apparently realising that the oil had done it no harm, it bared its teeth in a rather unattractive grin—though it looked closer to a grimace.

The monster advanced on Dean again but Dean, with his shitty AXE and lighter in hand, was ready. He flicked open the lighter’s cap and rolled his thumb down the gear. A small flame burst from the lighter’s top. Then, aiming, he squeezed the AXE’s nozzle.

The spray caught fire. It shot towards the creature and struck her in her face. Like wildfire—literally—the flame spread, igniting the holy fire coating her body.

The creature screamed loudly. It was a tortured and terrible thing. She sounded like a person. It was a woman’s scream, rather than the hoarse, grating voice Dean would _expect_ a creature like this to have. He almost felt bad. She _had_ had a very nice rack.

* * *

After filling his tank to the brim and calling Sam to let him know that he was still alive, Dean drove straight back to the motel. For the whole drive back, Dean had been quite on edge, worrying that perhaps another of those creatures would be hiding in the trees. And it wasn’t implausible at all; Dean could, if he slowed down, see things shifting in the trees. They could have been animals, or they could have been some supernatural creatures that Dean, with his lack of holy fire, no longer had the means to destroy (if, in fact, they were akin to the thing he had just killed).

The first thing Dean said to Sam when he walked into the motel room was: “What the hell was that thing?”

Sam was sitting calmly on his bed. His blazer was tossed over a chair, his tie was loosened, and the first few buttons of his shirt were undone. He was sitting upright in bed with his laptop resting on his thighs. His face was relaxed and bore no change in expression when Dean came in. He didn’t even look up from his screen as he answered.

“An Ajatar,” Sam said. Then, he continued, sensing that Dean would demand an explanation. “It’s from Finnish folklore. It’s a female spirit that can transform itself into a dragon or a snake. Dragon in your case. And she lives in the woods.”

“So she was our monster?”

“Uh, yeah. Apparently, she causes disease wherever she goes. And if you look at her, you become sick.”

“Well that explains a lot,” Dean decided. Now that he thought of it, that sick feeling _had_ started when Dean had first laid eyes on the Ajatar in the diner. “Case closed, then.”

* * *

Sam and Dean’s last hunt, the Ajatar, had been over three weeks ago. Since then, they had been taking some down time. They deserved it after all. After (hopefully) permanently exiling the British Men of Letters and defeating their latest big bad, their rest period was well earned.

That, and Dean’s brushes with death had started to mean something to him, now. Ever since Cas had killed Billie (knocking the world off-kilter while he was at it—a true Winchester), Dean had come to realise that mortality was a possibility. For many years, Dean—and Sam—had had an on again-off again relationship with life. Now that there would be no second chances (though hundred-and-something chances sounded closer to the number), Dean found himself being a bit more cautious on his hunts, spending a bit more time with his family, staring at a few more asses. He didn’t really want to let all that go quite yet.

Mary, now retrieved from the strange purgatory land she had been thrown into, Cas, now safe from death’s grasp, and, of course, Sam and Dean themselves, made quite the ensemble. The four of them had been beaten, bloodied, and bruised on their respective quests to achieve world peace (oh, what pageant girls they were). Crowley was dead, and Lucifer, still stuck, forever, if they were lucky, in the dimension from which Mary had been recovered.

For the first time in a long time, all of them found themselves smiling. Really smiling. Not _yeah, I’m okay_ reassuring smiles, not _that’s kinda funny_ smiles, but the kinds of smiles that sat on the lips without the person even realising they were there. Subconscious happiness.

Word around the bunker was that Dean could whip up a mean burger and that Sam could whip up a mean bowl of rabbit food; Dean’s preparations in the kitchen had earned their spot as regulars on the Winchester dining table.

They ate the burgers that Dean had prepared for them. The onions fell out of the backs, and the sauces dripped over their fingers and dribbled down their chins. And yet, none of them could be bothered. Not even Sam, who was always so meticulous as he ate and could often be found chastising Dean himself for being a messy eater, could be bothered to wipe the ketchup from his lip. It was a testament to how mellow the environment now was.

After Mary had turned in for bed, Dean tugged on Cas’ sleeve. The angel, despite his many years on Earth and his year or two living in the bunker with the rest of the Winchesters, had still not bothered to acquire a proper wardrobe. Though he had had his trenchcoat replaces a few times, the gist of the outfit was still the same. Dean wondered sometimes if it was mere sentimentality towards the get-up that prevented Cas from swapping it out for a Christmas sweater or a t-shirt, or if it was simply fashion ineptitude.

“Can I talk to you?” Dean asked in a low voice.

Sam, having heard Dean’s words despite the near-whisper he had employed, coughed loudly, taking it as his cue to leave. “I’m going to bed. Goodnight, guys.”

With Sam gone, Dean and Cas were left alone.

Dean opened his mouth to speak, but the words never had the chance to roll off his tongue. “I want to apologise to you,” Cas said. “Sam, too, when I have the chance.”

Dean hadn’t been expecting that at all. The spat that they had had a few weeks ago had been rather unfortunate. But Dean, though disappointed and admittedly hurt by Cas’ actions, had assumed that the whole thing would blow over as it always did. People never talked things through in this family. There were no big talks and confession sessions. They just ignored things and carried on. Dean didn’t know if this new thing was a welcome change or not.

“What I did,” Cas continued. “It was wrong. I did what I had to do but. . .I betrayed you and Sam. You’re my friends—family.”

“Cas, it’s okay,” Dean tried, but Cas wasn’t having any of it.

“Let me apologise,” Cas said fiercely. “All you stupid Winchesters, you never just _talk_. Have you ever just thought how much less trouble you would cause if you just communicated?”

“Isn’t that a bit hypocritical?” Dean asked. “When have you ever ‘just communicated’?”

Cas, at least, had the good graces to look a bit sheepish. Still, he bit out, “I’m trying, at least. You could do the same.”

Dean opened his mouth but then it fell shut as he thought better of it. This argument would go in circles if he let it. “Fine. Communicate, then.”

The glare Cas shot him could hardly be described as venomous, though it surely wasn’t kind. “I shouldn’t have run off with Kelly. I know we could have found a way to fix things together but. . .I was blinded. Again. I thought I was special, that I could turn that Nephilim into a weapon for heaven. That maybe doing so could prove to you that you could trust me.”

“Yeah, you did a _great_ job with that,” Dean said sardonically, and Cas frowned.

“You don’t trust me, I understand.”

“Is this some kind of ploy? Make me feel sympathy to get me to trust you?” Dean was all of a sudden very angry. Dean really _had_ meant for the whole thing to blow over, but now that he thought about it, he had every right to be pissed beyond hell. “You always do this. You do something stupid, and then you come back and throw yourself a pity party in the confessional booth and then act like we’re all good. I have had just about _fucking_ enough of it.” He laughed wryly. “How’s that for communication?”

Cas merely stared at him, blue eyes somehow wide and tired at the same time. His lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.

Dean stood, his chair scraping loudly against the floor as it was pushed back. “I’m going to bed. Don’t think this conversation is over.”

As Dean left the room, he could have sworn he heard the faintest “Goodnight, Dean” in response.

* * *

It was a conscious decision of Dean’s and, by extension the rest of the Winchester’s, to dial down on the hunting and dial up on the family time. Adjustment to this new way of life did not come easily, though. Dean had expected it to be a simple thing to settle down in his room with some Netflix, swaddled in blankets, but now, two weeks into his self-imposed hiatus, every inch of his skin was itching to go out on a hunt, to wrap his arms around a monster’s throat, or to shoot a huge chunk of rock salt into a ghost, or maybe use up his entire arsenal of silver bullets on a werewolf. But he needed to do _something_. He wasn’t used to sitting still. Last time had done so, he was four years old and his mom hadn’t died yet. But for more than thirty years now, he had been conditioned into a hunter, a soldier, even. He couldn’t stand the calm. Year after year, if he wasn’t on a monster-of-the-week hunt, then he would be digging up solutions with Sam and Cas to beat the latest grand threat to humanity. Did he really value his life over his sanity? Was the risk to his mortality worth killing his boredom?

The answer was undoubtedly yes.

Dean’s laptop, currently balanced on his thighs, was streaming an old Spaghetti Western that he knew every line of. Sighing, he clicked out of Netflix and began searching, typing typical keywords into the Google search bar: “freak attack”, “heart missing”, and, Dean’s personal favourite, “doors locked, no sign of a break-in or forced entry”.

For the most part, his search results could be chalked up to wild animals and humans with especially eccentric (read: psychotic) modus operandi, though a few of them seemed to have potential.

Dean sighed and opened up his Netflix window again, and leaned back into his headboard.

* * *

Dean rocked back and forth on his heels as he waited for the steaks to cook. The Winchesters had been occupying the Bunker for two generations (though not two _consecutive _generations). Dean’s meat loving genes had to have come from somewhere, therefore he couldn’t believe that his own Men of Letters grandfather had not set up a barbecue in the giant, forested expanse behind the bunker. But of course, having met Mary properly, Dean was beginning to see that Ms. _So? It’s Bacon___ was probably the source of his meat affinity.

Regardless, Dean had taken it upon himself to make use of their backyard, if it could be called that. He made it deep enough in the woods that it could not be spotted from the road, but near enough that his knees wouldn’t be creaking by the time they reached there. There, he had set up something of a patio, complete with a barbecue, roof, and a table. If Dean had his way, sometime in the near future there would be a fire pit, a swimming pool deep enough to have a diving board, and, perhaps, a small cottage. Keeping himself busy was the only way to cope with this sudden lack of hunting. Netflix, as amusing as it was, was only temporary entertainment. As soon as Dean became aware that his productivity level was at a whopping _zero_ , the urge to hunt would return. Making a good home for his family seemed to quell the itch better than anything else he had tried.

Dean jabbed his carving fork into one of the steaks on the grill and eased it onto a plate, stacking it onto the two that were already there. He set the plate back down on the barbecue’s side shelf.

Usually, Dean would use the Bunker’s kitchen to prepare a meal, but on a hot day such as this one, it was only right to take full advantage of their recreational property extension.

Sam bustled behind him, setting down a plate, knife, and fork in front of each seat. Cas and Mary were already sitting down, chatting amicably. Ever since Sam and Dean’s abduction and subsequent internment, a budding friendship had sprouted between Mary and Castiel, their bond strengthened over a mutual desire to bring their respective sons and friends home unscathed. Their bond had only strengthened in the light of the safety their hunting interlude had brought them. Much of the time, in the boys’ absence, the two could be found together as though they had known each other forever.

The sun was merciless, and despite the roof between Dean and the sun’s brutal reach, Dean could feel beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead and neck as he stabbed the last steak and manoeuvred it onto the plate.

“All set,” Dean said loudly, and right away, he could hear the loud thud of Sam sitting down, and the screech of his chair shuffling closer to the table. He set the plate down in the centre of the table and went towards the only chair left empty. “Help yourselves.”

They were like hawks, those Winchesters. Before Dean could even scoot his chair in, there was only one steak—his steak—remaining on the plate.

Dean shook his head, poking his fork into the last steak. “I take it I’m going to have to make some more.”

* * *

Dean found himself cornered by Castiel on a lazy, grey Sunday. Despite his headphones, Dean could hear rain beating down on the Bunker’s roof.

Cas opened Dean’s bedroom door quietly, so quietly that if Dean hadn’t happened to see it in his peripheral, he wouldn’t have realised Cas was in his room at all. Cas closed the door behind him, and Dean caught the click of the lock as he took off his headphones. Dean looked up at the angel questioningly, and Cas leaned back against the door as if to tell Dean that there was no way he was escaping this conversation.

“I talked to Sam,” Cas said instead of a greeting. “He’s being much less difficult.” Dean said nothing, and Cas continued, “But I suppose it’s always going to be harder for you. Everything I do seems to affect you more than it affects Sam.”

“Can I help you?” Dean said finally.

“You told me this conversation wasn’t over.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t wanna have it right now.” And really, the rain was already putting him off, but now here was Cas, trapping him in his own bedroom and subjecting him to a conversation regarding trust and the lack thereof. Dean wondered if he shouldn’t just grab a gun off of his wall and shoot Cas in the ticker. Sure, it would take him weeks, maybe months to heal on account of his diminished grace, but he wouldn’t _die_. But it would sure as hell make it loud and clear to not bother Dean until he wanted to be bothered.

“I do,” Cas said.

“This is not consensual, Cas. Anyone ever teach you about consent?”

“This isn’t sex, Dean.”

“It still applies. It always applies. If someone says no. . .it means no.”

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Cas replied, and he did indeed sound apologetic. “But not having this conversation is. . .restricting. It is. . .inhibiting us.”

“Us,” Dean repeated.

“How are we supposed to coexist if you won’t talk to me?”

Dean shrugged, finding no reason to argue. And Cas wasn’t wrong, either. Things had grown uncomfortable in the Bunker. With every day, every time that words were left unsaid, the tension grew thicker.

Taking Dean’s silence as an opportunity to persist, Cas continued, “I wanted to apologise.”

“I already said it way okay.”

“You didn’t mean it. And you don’t trust me.”

“I hate to be the bringer of bad news, Cas, but that’s not something that you can fix with a few words. We just need time.”

“I’m aware of that. But we have to start somewhere.”

“I guess. Listen, I haven’t eaten all day, and—”

“Yes, you’ve been in here all day. There’s food in the kitchen.”

“You made it?” Dean asked. If _Cas_ made it, what were the chances that the food was actually edible?

“Sam helped.”

“Oh, good.” Dean ignored Cas’ questioning look. As he got up and left his room, he felt the briefest brush on the small of his back.

* * *

As the months passed, the Winchesters and Co. began taking fewer and fewer cases. In fact, the only ones they went on were the ones Garth (who had come out of hiding upon the British Men of Letters’. . .disappearance) had referred to them. They hadn’t been out of Kansas in ages.

Not that Dean (or anyone else, for that matter) was complaining. Months spent at home ( _home_ , God, it was really _home_ ) had forced them to become accustomed to peace. Dean’s woods cottage was well on its way (it would have been an expensive project if not for his skill in credit card scamming). But keeping himself busy was no longer a necessary distraction from the sudden abundance of freedom.

If time healed all wounds, then the scab over Dean and Cas’ cut up relationship was just about ready to fall. It was true that the trust between them had not fully been restored but at this point, when neither of their lives were at risk, when the survival of the world no longer depended on them, it was okay. And they were mending.

A week ago, Dean had fallen asleep on Cas. Completely accidentally of course. They were already close together and under a blanket. (It was a classic story, truly: one too many movies past the designated bedtime and _boom_ , knocked out on your best friend’s shoulder. The grounds for a romance story for the history books, really, but _this_ romance story started with hell and a handprint.) Despite the Bunker’s excellent heating system, Dean had still found himself with numb toes.

Cas didn’t wake him up. In fact, he simply kept the Netflix running through the night and allowed Dean to rest on his shoulder. Cas didn’t sleep. He didn’t need it, after all, being an angel. He kept his hand running through Dean’s hair as he slept. He wondered where he had picked up such human urges.

* * *

The first time Sam caught Dean with his head in Castiel’s lap, it was about three in the morning, they were on the couch, the T.V was on, and there was enough light to see that Dean’s face had turned a red so deep that it would put the Red Planet to shame. He raised his hand just enough from his lap that Sam could see his protruding middle finger.

Sam simply smiled at him knowingly and left.

It was almost worse than when Mary had caught them doing the same thing and had offered her Mom Smile and a casual, “Didn’t I tell you angels were looking over you?”

Dean turned around and Cas’ knees parted just enough for Dean to shuffle up and rest his head on his stomach.

Cas’ hand was back in his hair.

* * *

Dean forced Cas to come with him to the cottage.

It had been a few months since their last stint, and over a year since the world had gone back to normal. The free time had both allowed their relationship to blossom, and Dean to continue working outdoors.

“We have to start putting out shit in there, now,” Dean explained to him as they walked with their arms stacked with boxes.

“It’s a long way to walk,” Cas replied, a mild frown gracing his lips.

Dean gave him a meaningful look. “Well we can’t exactly zap ourselves back and forth, now, can we?” When Cas’ frown deepened, Dean grinned and bumped him with his shoulder. “Hey, I like walking with you. Even if the boxes are heavy.” As if to emphasise his point, he shifted the boxes in his arms.

When they finally reached the cottage, Dean’s neck was damp with sweat. It was summer again, the perfect time to make good use of the cottage. A little ways further from the cottage was a pond deep enough to dive in. Dean was half considering living in the cottage itself and going down to the water every other day. But on the other hand, he _really_ wanted a swimming pool.

The boxes spilled from their arms to the floor.

The place was already furnished; shelves, tables, and chairs built by Dean himself, and a few beds in need of mattresses. There was no need for an oven—not when they had a barbecue—and really, Dean was quite content to piss in the woods and spill bottled water over his hands until he could sort out the plumbing.

“We should start setting up,” Dean suggested.

“We should get a quad bike,” Cas retorted. Dean had never heard him sound so irritated in his life. Perhaps the heat was getting to him, or maybe his muscles were sore. How very human.

Dean smiled softly, and he couldn’t help but plant a kiss on Cas’ cheek. “Sure thing.”

When Sam and Mary finally found them in the cottage (after them being gone far too long to not worry and investigate), they were sprawled on a mattressless bed, blankets piled under them, curled into each other’s arms.

Cas glanced up at them and smiled, and raised his index finger to his lips. His hand went back to Dean’s hair.


End file.
